


The Dance

by pyrrhic_victory



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Addiction, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Romance, Trauma, Unhealthy Attitudes to Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victory/pseuds/pyrrhic_victory
Summary: Quark throws a Valentine's Day dance to boost morale (and profits) in the midst of the Dominion War. Julian has no-one to go with, so asks Garak to come with him as a last resort.Things get complicated.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 12
Kudos: 71
Collections: Star Trek Valentine's Bang 2021





	The Dance

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for the Star Trek Valentine's Bang 2021, illustrated and beta'd by ectogeo!

Illustrated by [ectogeo!](https://ectogeo-art.tumblr.com/post/643607555584770048/garashir-at-a-valentines-day-dance-an)

As he stared at row after row of options for formal wear, Julian was becoming rapidly aware that he shouldn’t have agreed to this. 

Jadzia was so cheerful about it; maybe that was the problem. She said she was always fascinated by other species’ ‘mating rituals’. And now Julian couldn’t bear to tell her that there was almost nothing he’d rather do less than attend a Valentine’s party, in _Quark’s_ , in a _holosuite_. 

He had forgotten, in his usual eagerness to be included, that this was something he didn’t want to be included in at all.

It wasn’t even the fact that it was a party, necessarily. He wasn’t fond of big events these days, but he’d have been less apprehensive if it was a non-denominational celebration to boost morale. 

But it wasn’t. 

It was a _Valentine’s Day_ party - specifically a _dance_ \- and he’d agreed to go without thinking about how he would have to stand on the sidelines and watch almost all of his friends dance with their partners. 

He didn’t even have anything to wear. 

His fault, maybe, for throwing out almost all of his civilian clothes. They felt wrong after he got back from the internment camp. 

There was nothing _visibly_ different about them, but it was like he could feel the changeling on them. His shirts were itchy in places they hadn’t been before, his trousers scratched, the seams felt like they were rubbing against his skin. He threw out everything that felt wrong, and then a few other things that he didn’t want to bother trying on. 

It wasn’t like he spent much time out of his uniform anyway. 

His dress uniform was out of the question. It made him itch. More than once he’d deliberately ‘lost’ or forgotten it to get out of wearing it at events where it was compulsory, so there was no chance he was getting it on voluntarily. 

And the replicator’s range of clothes seemed both too big and too small. He didn’t know what he ought to wear, what would be too much or not enough, what would make him itch or feel too tight. The more he looked at the little pixelated images the more they seemed to blur into one unidentifiable muddle, and _he didn’t know what to do._

That was a lie, though. He knew what he should do. The reasonable, logical thing that people did when they needed clothes. But he didn’t know if he had the energy for that. Garak was… he could be tiring. Trying to keep up with the way he talked was sometimes more painful than rewarding, especially if he was making digs at Julian. 

It was difficult to know how to please him. Sometimes Julian would be as friendly and polite and casual as he could, and Garak would act like he’d slapped him. Sometimes he would be more reserved, more recalcitrant the way he thought a spy ought to be, the way he assumed Garak thought people should be—

But Garak didn’t respond to that either. If anything, that seemed to offend him more. The only way to actually talk to him was to argue with him. 

Maybe Julian didn’t have any place being at the dance in the first place. People would just stare at him. Lately, people looked at him, and then they looked away. People were _afraid_ of him. They hid their stares behind corners or windows but he was very good at seeing patterns. It had been coded into him, after all. 

He was on the station to be a doctor, to perform his duty and save lives and everything else was just superfluous. He’d be perfectly fine in the infirmary by himself. 

But then the thought of everyone except _him_ packed into that holosuite while he…what? Sequenced viral DNA? Read reports? Reorganised the store cupboard? Moped about not having a date?

Was it better to be alone at a party or alone outside of it? 

***

Yet another rush order. Garak would have been grateful for the business had he not been inundated with hurried commissions on top of the occasional work Starfleet allowed him to do for them. As it was, he was swamped with formalwear requests for this Terran festival, and worked through most lunchtimes. Partially out of necessity, and partially because he found it far too depressing to eat by himself, either in his shop, in the Replimat or making the journey back to his quarters. 

Lunch was a social meal, he’d always believed. A break in the middle of the working day where one interacted with one’s colleagues. Or at least, that was what it tended to be for ordinary people. He’d never quite been one of those. 

Lunch was supposed to be shared, and since the war, and Ziyal, and Bashir avoiding him—

Lunch was no longer a concern of his. He was far too busy. 

And yet, when Julian Bashir stepped into his shop late in the morning, Garak still felt that intolerable _jolt_ of hopefulness that quickly turned to resentment. 

“Doctor Bashir! What a _surprise_ to see you here. What can I do for you?” 

Julian looked tired. He folded his arms and avoided looking at Garak, his eyes darting instead around the mannequins and rails. 

“I need some clothes,” he said, and stopped there. Garak put the pieces together quickly enough; there was a pile of red dresses in his workroom that told him all he needed to know. 

“For this Terran ‘Valentine’s’ ritual, I take it.” Something to do with love or sex, Garak had discovered. Quark’s explanation had been very vague, and he seemed to have picked it up from Nog, who had been told by Jake. 

“Yes, well. Jadzia talked me into it.” Julian picked at his sleeve. “It’s supposed to be quite formal, but I haven’t got anything like that to wear, you see.” 

“You mean to say antique Terran military uniforms would violate the dress code?” Garak said. “What a shame. You do seem to have a plethora of those.” 

“Are you going to help, or not?” Julian asked. His voice was hard. He _was_ hard now, colder than before— before the changeling and the camp and his parents came to the station. Not cold in outright rudeness or cruelty (Julian could never be that) but in blank walls and absence. 

But then Julian’s face crumpled and softened. 

“I’m sorry, Garak. I just— I don’t really want to go to this silly thing in the first place.”

“I see. Are you not a faithful devotee of Saint Valentine, doctor?” He had certainly seemed to be, in the past. Garak had seen him on date after date since the first day he arrived on the station. 

“Well, you know how it is. The only people who actually like Valentine’s Day are lovestruck new couples. Everyone else just has to put up with half the world slathered in red and pink for a week.” 

“Then if the significance of the festival is for romantic couples only, why attend?” 

“It would be worse not to go,” Julian said. It sounded as though he was convincing himself as much as Garak. He had never known Julian to feel compelled to participate in a human ritual in such a way before, but human religion was complicated. His attempts to study it were fraught with contradictions. 

“Besides, Jadzia wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. She’s convinced I need ‘cheering up’ and if I don’t go, she’ll only double down on it. Next thing you know she’ll be taking me hang gliding.” 

“Perhaps you shall have to yield, and allow yourself to be ‘cheered up’ before things get out of hand.” 

“I don’t need— I’m fine. And even if I wasn’t, I don’t think being the third wheel to four different couples would improve anyone’s mood. So if you’ve got any clothes specifically designed to be worn to an event that you intend to leave as soon as it’s socially acceptable, that would be perfect.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

Julian was not currently intimate with anyone. That was a fact Garak filed away for himself as he slipped into the backroom to look through his stock. It wouldn’t feel right to offer Julian something he already had on display. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps Garak simply enjoyed the knowledge that the doctor was outside the door, waiting for him. 

Not _him_. 

Julian was waiting for something he could provide. 

It was important to make those distinctions. Julian had made it clear through his previous absences that he no longer had any special interest in Garak, in either his past or his future (what little was left of either.) The young, bright-eyed Julian would hang off his every word, but this new, older Julian had seen enough darkness that Garak had no intrigue to offer him. 

He wondered when the change had happened. 

Perhaps after he tried to eliminate the Founders. Perhaps after the changelings took Julian and replaced him. Perhaps after Empok Nor. He knew he had said things to Julian then, before he had cleaned Garak’s blood of the toxin. He could not remember what he’d said, but he didn’t need to. Cruelty had been built into him from the start.

It was better for Julian to step away. 

Garak paused over a set of drawers where he kept his old stock of Cardassian formalwear. In the topmost drawer were swathes of brown and grey that wouldn’t suit Julian at all. They were too cold and utilitarian; they would drain him. 

But below them was a bundle of soft, muted green and blue. A matched set of a tunic and trousers; he could see them fitting Julian well if he altered it a little. 

Several of his patrons had requested their garments match their partner’s. Cardassian etiquette was to match one’s spouse at formal occasions; clothing is a language of itself, although one usually overlooked. Julian was attending alone, of course, so there was no need, but all the same he still found himself considering what he would pair with this. 

And he found himself thinking of clothes that he himself owned, because he was a sentimental fool. Still, he brought the tunic back to the counter with him, along with all the others. 

Julian was tapping his fingers together, though he stopped when Garak came back. His eyes went wide.

“Good grief, I don’t need a whole wardrobe, Garak. Well, actually, I suppose I do, but I don’t think all this—”

“When one is attempting to find the correct outfit, my dear doctor, one must first be able to confidently discard the wrong one.” 

Perhaps he had gone a little overboard in his desire to find something suitable, but there were so many garments he could see Julian wearing, and he couldn’t quite bear to put one down once he’d visualised it. 

There were a few intended to get a reaction out of the doctor, of course. Julian lifted a vinyl sort of Betazoid dress in lurid red from the top of the pile and locked eyes with Garak. His exasperated expression was something to be savoured. 

“This is going to take longer than I expected, isn’t it?” Julian said. 

“You needn’t try them all, doctor. Though I’m sure that particular item would suit you perfectly.” 

Julian narrowed his eyes and put the dress to the side with a firm volley of squeaks.

“Thank you, Garak.” 

Garak watched him sort through the pile, though he tried not to. He tried to think about anything other than tired brown eyes and fingers nimbly plucking through soft fabric, but it didn’t exactly work. 

“Doctor— forgive me if I have misunderstood the conventions of your people surrounding this matter, but would your enjoyment of this event not be a little more attainable if you merely brought a companion along with you?”

“Oh, I’m sure it would. And where do you suppose _I’m_ going to find a _companion_?” Julian asked. He asked it as though Garak had insulted him by even posing the question. 

“It has been my observation that you have little difficulty in acquiring either temporary or long-term partners,” Garak said. He could picture a dozen one-offs in his head, plus his longer relationship with Leeta. 

“Well, _thank you_ , Garak, but all that was _before_.” 

Julian was rifling through the clothes with slightly more force now. He wouldn’t look at Garak. 

“Before…?”

Julian’s hands turned to fists on the fabric, not damaging it, simply compressing themselves into white knuckles. 

“Before the whole world found out that I was subject to illegal genetic enhancements as a child. So yes, Garak, it might surprise you to learn that I am having a little trouble finding a _date_.” 

It hadn’t occurred to Garak that the Federation’s hatred of augments ran this deep; that Julian would feel like such an outsider merely because of his biology. On Cardassia an augment would be an oddity or an asset, not a monster. Half the Obsidian Order had been molded from birth. To think of Julian going through the same kind of training he had as a young boy and then being ostracised for it...

“It is… regrettable that the Federation is not as open-minded as it would claim to be. A failure on their part, doctor. Not yours.” 

Julian snorted. And for once, didn’t defend the Federation. “And I suppose Cardassians would be falling over themselves to get a date with an augment.” 

Garak found himself tapping his hand on the counter reflexively; anything to distract Julian from the very uncomfortable reality of that question for one particular Cardassian. 

“On Cardassia, there will always be a place for those who wish to serve.” 

It was not the kind of statement he usually felt comfortable making these days. It was… not a lie, exactly, but he could not say with any sense of certainty that it was true. Not while he was trapped in exile and his people were tearing themselves apart.

Julian gave a little _hmph._ “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?” 

“But of course. A state is nothing without the service of its people.” 

Julian had put most of the pile aside, with only a few pieces in comfortable fabrics seemingly deemed acceptable. His hands rested for a moment on the tunic Garak had secreted at the bottom of the pile. 

He could see Julian’s indecision becoming overwhelming for him again.

“I always recommend trying on anything you’re uncertain about, doctor,” he says. “It’s impossible to get the true feeling of a garment until one sees oneself in it.” 

It wasn’t that he was personally interested in seeing what Julian would look like wearing traditional Cardassian clothing. Not at all. 

Julian looked doubtful. His hand smoothed over the thick fabric again. 

“Some of these look expensive, Garak. I wouldn’t want to ruin them.” 

“One wear will hardly decimate a garment. Cardassian craftsmanship is a _little_ more robust than that. Please, I must insist.” 

“Alright.” 

He closed the dressing room curtain on Julian and did _not_ wait for him. He certainly did _not_ become distracted with the notion that he was undressing. Instead he tried to think of anything other than warm skin brushing against fabric behind a flimsy curtain. He tried to think of anything he could do to remedy this new dourness that had overtaken Julian. 

He was still young, but he carried an old soldier’s exhaustion. Garak knew it well, and he was suddenly struck with the urge to _fix_ it. It was the same urge he got when he saw a broken computer or a fraying seam or a dying flower, except this hit him like a phaser blast and he could not fabricate a single rational explanation for it. 

There had to be something he could do. Anything to smooth down even a tiny shard of that sharpness that Julian now exuded. 

“If it is permitted by the rules of the event, perhaps you could consider attending with a friend,” Garak suggested. “Someone who could serve as your partner for the night.” 

Julian sighed; the sound blended with rustling fabrics behind the curtain. 

“Everyone’s going with their partners. Miles and Keiko, obviously. Sisko and Kasidy. Jadzia and Worf. Leeta and Rom. Jabara said she and her wife might go, too.” 

“Constable Odo and Major Kira are as yet unattached, are they not?”

“Kira’s on duty, and I can’t see Odo being thrilled about attending a dance as anything other than security, can you?” 

Garak hummed. “Perhaps not.” 

Julian had yet to count _him_ among his list of friends. He didn’t want to come to lunch with Garak these days, let alone be seen with him at a fertility festival. He assumed that was what it was, anyway. Humans were obsessed with that sort of thing. He couldn’t say there weren’t Cardassians with similar inclinations (Dukat, unfortunately, came to mind) but he’d always thought of his people as at least somewhat more rational when it came to matters of the heart and body. 

“Garak… no, never mind.” 

“Are you having difficulty with one of the garments?” 

“No, I’m fine. I just… you’re not going with anyone, are you?” It was such an innocent question that Garak almost laughed. If Julian thought _he_ had a hard time getting people to like him…

“No, doctor. Nobody has yet thought to invite a Cardassian to participate in a human ritual.” 

Julian was quiet for a moment. Garak wished he could see his face, to pin down where the conversation was going before he got blindsided. 

“I don’t suppose you’d like to come, then.” Julian’s voice sounded deliberately even and casual.

Garak went very still. He could feel that on the other side of the curtain, Julian had gone still as well. 

“Much like yourself, I would feel most out of place at such an event without a partner.”

Julian pulled the curtain aside, frowning slightly. 

“I was asking if you’d come _with_ me.” 

He was wearing the tunic. This simple blow to the chest put Garak off speaking for long enough that Julian looked away. 

“It’s a silly idea, never mind.” 

“No—” Garak quickly said. Julian glanced up at him with nervous hope in his expression that Garak found it hard to believe he had induced. “I would be delighted.” 

“Really?” Julian looked so relieved that he could almost feel it in himself. 

“Of course. I must admit to being quite curious. I haven’t had the opportunity to learn much about human customs in this— ah— area. And I can’t think of a better person to educate me.” 

He was talking too much. He tried not to stare at Julian’s neck, which was left exposed by the low cut of the fabric.

“That’s a relief, honestly,” Julian said. He was smiling slightly, a sort of shy smile. “What do you think?” he asked, gesturing to himself. 

Garak could not confidently trust himself to tell the honest answer to that. 

“Oh, it suits you perfectly. Is it comfortable enough?”

“Oh, very. I thought it would be too heavy or itchy, but it’s perfect,” Julian said. He seemed preoccupied with touching the softest part of the tunic, the pattern across the cuffs. “Not that I think you would make something itchy on purpose, it’s just that, well, this looks Cardassian, and your skin is less sensitive than mine, so I suppose I expected the fabric to be rougher, but it isn’t, actually. So. It’s perfect.”

That was the most words he had gotten out of Julian in weeks, and he was just about to bask in it when that eager voice and warm smile were gone again. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on,” Julian said. He seemed to go stiff and cold again, setting his hands deliberately by his sides. 

That was… worrying. Julian talked. He talked a lot. This was why Garak liked him in the first place, he was one of the few people willing to exchange more than a few cold pleasantries with him. He’d often noticed people cutting Julian off or plainly telling him to be quiet, of course, but he didn’t realise he’d taken it to heart. Perhaps all this scrutiny on Julian’s humanity had made a deeper crack in his facade of confidence than Garak had realised. 

“You have nothing to apologise for, doctor,” he cautiously said. “Your conversation is, as ever, a welcome relief from my otherwise monotonous routine.” Julian’s hand drifted to his cuff again, fiddling with it as he frowned at Garak. He didn’t know what else to say. He was not trained to be kind to people. 

“Besides, Cardassian skin is not less sensitive, it is simply sensitive to _different_ stimuli. We are not completely covered in scales, you know,” he decided to say. 

“No?” Julian looked interested again, less dour. Then his head tilted slightly. “How far down do they go?” There was a playful sort of look to him now, and the way his warm eyes flicked around the room before settling on Garak was… interesting. 

“I would hope that my doctor would know the answer to that without having to ask,” Garak smiled back. “Now, the tunic does seem a touch on the large side, but that can be remedied easily enough, if you’ll stand still for a moment.” 

“Oh, you don’t need to go to any trouble, I’m sure it’s fine as it is.” 

“Doctor, it would reflect poorly on my craft if I allowed my companion to attend a formal event in an ill-fitting garment. Please, allow me.” 

Julian gave him a look, but stood still as instructed.

Measuring Julian was a special kind of privilege he had only been afforded on a few occasions. His holosuite costumes were more often than not replicated, but the times when he had come in with a very specific request, Garak had always taken advantage of that to retake his measurements. 

His skin was warm; Garak could feel it even in the distance between his hand and Julian’s neck. He could feel Julian’s eyes, too. Warm brown, watching Julian smooth down a wrinkle by his neck and touch his waist with both hands to check if the tunic fit there. 

“If you’ll remove the outer layer, I believe there are some modifications to be made to the pants,” Garak said. 

“You might have to help me,” Julian said. “I wouldn’t want to impale myself on a pin.” 

Julian was still watching him. He was talking quite casually, with a sideways sort of smile. Friendly. Almost like—

Garak swallowed. Julian only meant it as a joke, since they were going to attend this event together. Besides, he was a professional and he had done this with hundreds of people by now. There was no reason to be getting warm just because it was Julian he was measuring and telling to dress and undress. 

“Of course.” He gathered the fabric carefully at the bottom and guided first one, then the other of Julian’s arms out of the sleeves without any incidents with the pins, until there came a moment where he was holding the tunic and Julian wasn’t wearing anything but the trousers, and he was still _watching_ Garak in that impermeable way. 

He hung up the tunic to give himself something to look at besides Julian; but then of course he could see his smooth back reflected in the mirror, his shoulder-blades shifting beneath the surface when he stretched his arms. 

Still watching him, almost curious in the way he tracked Garak’s movements. 

His knuckles brushed bare skin as he pinned the loose waistband; it was too big, loose enough he could see Julian’s underwear. His fingers nudged against that, too. 

Julian watched him kneel. He checked the hems and decided to leave them as they were. And he could still feel Julian _watching._

He knew before he looked up that Julian’s eyes would still be on him. And for a second, he stayed frozen like that, poised on his knees in front of Julian, forgetting how to breathe. 

“Is that everything?” Julian asked, brows raised. 

“Yes. Just, ah— be careful of the pins taking those pants off, doctor.” 

“You’re not going to help?” Julian asked.

“If you can’t find your own way out of a pair of trousers, then I worry for your patients,” Garak said, and ducked out of the dressing room, taking the other discarded garments with him. 

Maybe this ritual had more to it than he had initially anticipated. Because as soon as he’d asked, as soon as it had been established that yes, he was an acceptable companion for this event, Julian’s behaviour had changed. He looked at Garak like he wanted something. 

Wanted _him._

But he never had before. Their casual conversations and arguments had been flirting for Garak, of course, but Julian had been either ignorant or simply playing along. It was a joke. It was just the way their friendship worked. There wasn’t any _desire_ there, not from Julian. If there had been, surely he would have done something? After all, Julian had been trying to sleep with Jadzia since even before they arrived on the station. 

He didn’t understand where this sudden change had come from. 

The curtain pulled back again, and Garak turned quickly, half expecting Julian to be undressed. Thankfully, he was in his proper uniform again, the trousers folded over his arm. 

“I’ve got to run, I’m afraid, but thank you for this. I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Julian said. There was that tone again, half-flirting, half-joking. Garak had no idea what to do with it. 

“Of course.” 

Julian touched his arm as he handed over the trousers, and didn’t take his hand away. 

“Are you sure you’ll be able to do those alterations in time? You’re swamped as it is, aren’t you?” he asked. He had that soft frown again. Julian’s hand on the crook of his arm felt burning hot to Garak, who was always cold and never touched by something so warm. 

“You overestimate the difficulty of the task, doctor,” he managed to say. “I’ll be done in no time. The event isn’t until tomorrow night, I believe?” 

“That’s right. February 14th, on Earth. Right, I’ve really got to go. I’ll see you then.” 

“Good evening, doctor.” 

Julian squeezed his arm before he dashed off, leaving Garak with another outfit to add to his stack, and a completely overwhelming feeling of confusion. 


End file.
